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From: eli@NetUSA.Net (Eli The Bearded)
Subject: [rae archive] Bridal {mf m-solo hist}
Keywords: mf m-solo hist

Archive-name: bridal

From: Caroline@ardgrain.wintermute.co.uk (Caroline Ashbee)

Subject: Bridal

Keywords: mf m-solo hist

X-Moderator-Review: 10: exquisitely crafted and researched. Not for
the squeamish, though.

X-Ava-Review: 10: another fine historical piece from Ashbee

Bridal by Caroline Ashbee

Now, finally, he is untying the tapes of her ankle socks, first the
one, then the other. They are both very excited. He is excited because
he will be seeing what hitherto he ought not to have seen. She is
apprehensive about letting be seen what hitherto has had to have been
hidden. Impetuosity and self-discipline contest within him as he
slowly draws the socks off revealing her perfect golden lotus feet.

On the bridal bed it is her duty to submit, so she lies back, and
aware that she should not feel it, in spite of herself, she feels
exposed, indecent, and ashamed; but she is also very excited. She
remembers the foot-binder coming when she was small, her mother
stroking her brow and clucking meaninglessly to comfort her in the
atrocious pain as her four smaller toes were folded and flattened
under each sole, as the arch of each foot was carefully broken, then
folded from front to back, and bound tightly, shortening her feet
until even now her shoes are just four inches long. The years of
fading pain, the slow recovery, the shooting agony endured while
learning, a second time, to walk, the only possible way for a lady to
walk, the graceful, mincing totter, that makes the men excited and
amorous. She thinks of the old physician who explained to her the
medical and alchemical aspects of childbearing when she was contracted
to be married. He told her that beautiful children were conceived as
the results of pleasing couplings, and that the creation of lotus feet
was not just for beauty, but that it caused the lining of the vagina
to wrinkle into folds, enhancing pleasure and therefore producing
beautiful children. She thinks of her cousin, condemned now to
crippled spinsterhood, who, through over-zealous vanity, had bound her
feet so tightly that the left one completely mortified and had to be
amputated. She thinks of all the accidents and misfortunes and
illnesses that might have befallen her and prevented her from
fulfilling her destiny, from marrying, from finding herself on the
bridal bed. She is surprised that she feels no sense of triumph now.
She thinks now, that before, if she had thought about it, she would
have expected to have had some sense of satisfaction: all the physical
preparations and her education had been devoted to the perfection of a
wife, and on her bridal bed she is beginning to consummate that
long-desired, long-awaited destiny.

He is gazing at the golden lotuses, his face close to the feet,
savouring the cheesy ammoniacal smell. His fingers probe the folds,
and the tickling and the wicked impropriety of it all makes her
giggle. Then he does something that she had never imagined anybody
doing or wanting to do. He sits up holding the foot in both hands, and
then he pushes his thumbs into the cleft where the arch was broken so
long ago, and he begins to prise it apart. The foot creaks, and the
cleft opens a little; at first the feeling is not unpleasant: it is
almost nostalgic, the feeling of use being made of a member left long
unused and atrophied; but the healing process has reset the bones and
the cleft opens only a little despite his wrenching, and it hurts. She
sighs. He reaches across her and rolls her on her side. The slightly
opened foot is lying on the quilt. She watches, expectantly, as he
smears himself with the perfumed ointment. She knows what will happen
next: the pillow-book they have already looked at shows what happens
next; but it doesn't. He begins to thrust himself not where she
expected him to but into the newly opened cleft. At first it tickled
when he touched the foot, and she had to will herself to relax to
resist it and lie still without giggling -- she still feels the
tickling: she just relaxes through the response -- and then
enlightened, illuminated, shining, she understands the ecstasy of
making love, and why it is that women's feet are bound. Eventually she
feels something warm, the stream of pearl, gush into her foot. He
rolls away, crawls up the bed, and whispers endearments, and caresses
her for a while. Then he crawls down to her feet again. This time,
raising her foot to his lips he slips the great toe into his mouth and
sucks, a child at nurse, tasting the salt of her sweat, the tiny foot
almost entirely contained within his mouth. Then slowly, carefully,
but totally inexorably he arranges her on her back, forcing one leg
upwards so that the anterior face of her thigh presses against belly
and chest, the foot extending beyond her shoulder, beside his face, as
he enters her. The muscles of her thighs strain and stretch. She knows
a different kind of pain, the kind that can be drawn within the belly
and defeated. He rests upon her belly now, in that simplest of
postures, face-to-face, his left hand reaching forward to cup the tiny
foot and caress it, gently, slowly, weed in the rippling water.

"It will take time to discover what you prefer." he murmurs.
"But perhaps that is not the point." she replies.

Copyright (c) Caroline Ashbee 1995
_________________________________________________________________

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